


The Left Hand Path

by elithewho



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Eventual Romance, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Murder Mystery, Psychic Abilities, Serial Killers, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-21 13:12:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13741638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elithewho/pseuds/elithewho
Summary: Detective Percival Graves, struggling to track down a gruesome serial killer hard at work in modern-day New York City, receives assistance from a very unlikely place.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A modern day, mostly mundane AU combining my two great loves, serial murder and greenie.
> 
> Thanks as ever to Morgan for the endless cheerleading and beta-ing and all the excellent ideas to make this fic better than a random jumble of words.
> 
> The story is complete and chapters will be uploaded with some regularity.

 

~~~

"None of the crimes filled the emptiness. He had to keep killing Stephanie over and over again, hoping that each time would be the time that would bring surcease. But the more there were, the worse it became."

Ann Rule, _The Stranger Beside Me_

 

“There is no law beyond do what thou wilt.”

Aleister Crowley, _The Book of the Law_

~~~

It was a bright, cold day in New York City, the leaves were just beginning to fall, and Graves and his partner Tina were on their way to see a body.

 

_Another one,_ the text from Sargeant Picquery had said. Grim and to the point. Followed by an address in South Harlem.

 

Gawking onlookers and a few bloodthirsty journos were held back by beat cops in uniform and strips of fluorescent police tape. Picquery stood beyond it with the medical examiner, the forensic photographer already snapping away. In a cramped, sunless alleyway lined with dumpsters, the young man had been found stuffed in a garbage bag partially torn open by someone's curious dog, scrunched up in the fetal position. Graves could make out one pale hand and a tuft of dark hair. The pungent smell of flesh just beginning to decompose mingled with the stench of garbage and sewer and that of a kebab cart still lingering nearby, no doubt hoping to take advantage of the crowd.

 

"I said it, didn't I?" Tina muttered, her eyes bright despite the dark circles.

 

"Said what?"

 

"Three months. Like clockwork."

 

Graves didn't respond. He didn't need to; of course she was right. He didn't want to think it but he could already feel the clock resetting for another three months. There'd be another young man soon and he hadn't even seen the latest one.

 

"You sure this is the same guy?" Graves asked Picquery instead after she briefed them on how the body had been found.

 

"Let's find out," she said, nodded to the ME.

 

Carefully, they split the garbage bag open. The white hand gave way to dark purple bruises on the wrist, an ashen face with glassy eyes wide open. Dressed in a white shirt and jeans, he couldn't be more than twenty. Graves snapped on a pair of latex gloves and carefully turned the young man's hand over so the palm faced up. He knew what he would see, but his heart sank all the same. The symbol that had been on all the others: a circle inside a triangle bisected vertically by a straight line, drawn in black permanent marker.

 

Light filled his vision as the photographer took another picture of the man's hand and Graves heard Tina's sigh of disgust. Graves took stock of the whole picture, forcing himself into that headspace of clinical detachment. Lifting the collar of the young man's shirt just enough to peek at his chest, he saw the dark bloodless wound carved into his skin. The shirt too was clean, which meant he'd been stripped, tortured, washed, and then redress. Just like the others. Graves was certain they'd find needle marks on his arms and sedatives in his system. The sharp burn of bleach filled his nostrils to join the equally unpleasant stink of decay. Tina was taking note of everything he did, recording it all into her phone for future use.

 

There was a lump in the young man's jean pocket, and Graves cautiously extracted a battered wallet. Tina produced a few plastic evidence bags, noting each with a number as Graves rattled off the contents.

 

"Six dollars in cash, a Metro card, a New York Public Library card, a student ID – Credence Barebone," he read out. "Borough of Manhattan Community College."

 

"Poor kid," Tina sighed. "He barely looks old enough for high school."

 

Graves could surmise he was a freshman, like the other victims. Young adults out in the world for the first time, perhaps still living with their parents, but imbued with the freedom of not being a high schooler, barely even a teen in their own minds. Easy prey for whatever predator had done this, then dumped like trash to be picked at by scavengers.

 

There was a folder on his computer filled with pictures of Anthony Sheehan and Jason Lim. Alive and dead, smiling self-consciously for senior picture day and then what remained. Tony half-submerged in mud, pale face and hair looking strangely amphibious, smeared with muck and sand, bleached and washed out by the camera flash, body just beginning to bloat and decompose, unrecognizable from the young man in the other picture. Jason was more of the same, skin waxy and bloodless, wrists still purple with lividity and the ligature marks so deep in his skin each strand of rope was visible.

 

The camera clicked away, filling the small space with hot flashes of light. A new face for his dire library. The ME bagged his hands while Graves turned to Picquery.

 

"I think we should release the symbol to the press," he said in a low voice.

 

"Absolutely not," she said crisply. "We've discussed this."

 

"We still don't know what it means and maybe someone in the public -"

 

"It doesn't mean anything except that he has a sick sense of humor and wants attention. We need to keep this quiet so we can rule out suspects when necessary."

 

Graves frowned. They hadn't found any serious suspects in six months and while Graves could see the wisdom in her stance, he chafed at the idea. Picquery was sure it was just a made-up symbol, like the one used by the Zodiac killer or BTK. Something to get his crimes front-page attention, to build a spooky mystique around what was surely ordinary lust murder. The criminal profiler on loan from the FBI had said as much.

 

Graves wasn't as certain. And he wanted to be sure.

 

But Picquery was giving him a look that brooked no argument so he dropped it. For the time being.

 

"You look like shit, by the way," she continued, startling him. "You're supposed to be heading this investigation. When was the last time you showered?"

 

Graves didn't respond, not with the pain in his neck reminding him why getting horizontal was so important when sleeping. Yes, he'd slept at his desk again. He hadn't planned on it, but there it was. He rubbed his unshaven jaw and frowned. Her tone was gruff, but he knew her well enough to see the underlying concern in her words. Six months ago he'd been expertly groomed every day; now he couldn't remember the last time he'd worn a tie.

 

"Try and take care of yourself, Graves," she said with a sigh.

 

He ran a hand through his graying hair, feeling the buildup of grease but knowing he didn't have time to run home for a shower. Tina was already at his elbow, punching something into her phone.

 

"Let's head to the school and get his address so we can inform the family and start there," she said.

 

"Yeah, OK," Graves mumbled.

 

 

 

Credence Barebone, it transpired, had been in foster care. Despite being 18, he still lived with his foster mother in a small Harlem apartment ten blocks or so from where his body had been dumped. And despite raising him since the age of six, Mary Lou Barebone took the news of his brutal murder with only a sour downturn of her mouth.

 

"Chastity, Modesty, did you hear?" she called to the two young girls still in her care. "Credence is dead."

 

The one called Modesty squeezed the raggedy stuffed rabbit in her grip and looked at the floor while Chastity stared at her foster mother with giant, solemn eyes.

 

"What's your rabbit called?" Tina said kindly to the young girl who only mumbled something in response. "Do you have other toys? Can you show me?"

 

Tentatively, the girls led Tina to the room they shared, leaving Graves with Mary Lou. She lit a cigarette and blew a plume of smoke into the air. The entire apartment was neat but grubby, walls bearing pictures not of the children she cared for but of Jesus and his mother, the lot surrounding a huge wooden crucifix. Graves had an uncomfortable memory of his childhood: the Catholic services and his mother's stern reprimands as he tried to sit still, the face of Christ contorted in suffering, the blood dripping from his wounds bright and exaggerated.

 

"Did Credence have any friends I could talk to?" Graves asked her. "A girlfriend?"

 

Mary Lou snorted in derision. "Unlikely. He barely spoke to me. And I was doing him a favor, putting a roof over his head when I don't even have to anymore." She shot Graves a look as though she expected some praise for her magnanimity.

 

"Maybe he had a boyfriend," Graves ventured cautiously. Tony Sheehan's parents had volunteered that their son was gay but Jason's had been insulted at the implication. His sister had later told Graves that he'd confided his sexuality to her alone.

 

Mary Lou's head whipped around as she stared daggers at him. "I should think not," she snarled, and Graves wisely backed off.

 

"Anyone from school he mentioned?" he ventured. "Did he have a phone?"

 

"I wasn't paying for no damn phone," she snapped. "And no, he never mentioned anyone."

 

Graves stared into her expressionless eyes, cold and apparently uncaring. Would it make a difference if she knew precisely how her son had died? How he'd been tortured, perhaps for days? On reflection he didn't think so.

 

"Can I look around his room?" Graves finally asked, sensing he would get no further with the woman.

 

"Yeah, I don't care. Third door on your left."

 

Credence's room was small and cramped, but, like the rest of the apartment, very orderly. There was a utilitarian alarm clock on his nightstand, a cross above his bed and wooden rosary beads looped over the bedframe, the bed hospital ward-neat. Graves thought back to the other rooms he had examined. Tony's room at his parents' house and its walls plastered with posters, floor strewn with clothes, the bed a tangle of unmade sheets. Jason's dorm room had been a mess as well, the laptop completely obscured by discarded clothes and untouched textbooks. The opposite of Credence's – stacked ruler-straight on his desk, they were stuffed with sticky notes and color-coded tabs, the pages wrinkled from plenty of use. Graves slipped on gloves to explore further.

 

The young man did not have an overabundance of possessions. Graves leafed through the short stack of notebooks, a cursory glance only revealing tidy handwriting and copious notes. The closet held a few pressed shirts and trousers. Pulling out one drawer after another, he discovered the dresser was just as organized and sparse. Finding nothing of use, he was about to turn away when he paused. Something about the sock drawer looked out of place, the back a slightly darker shade of wood. When he squashed down the rows of socks to tap lightly, eliciting a hollow sound, he realized how shallow the drawer was. Feeling along the bottom revealed a small catch he could wedge a fingernail under and pull. The back came loose, revealing a battered old tin.

 

Secrets, Graves mused, were ripest for discovery. Things Credence hadn't wanted his foster mother to find. The contents revealed the typical: three joints in a plastic baggy and a roll of cash. The cash was paltry, only about a hundred bucks, but tucked underneath the baggy was something that made Graves's heart stop. A thin silver chain and a pendant in the shape of a triangle enclosing a circle and a vertical bar. There hadn't been anything like this tucked in the recesses of Tony or Jason's rooms. Mouth dry, Graves plucked the chain from the tin and slipped into a small evidence bag. He replaced the tin and false back of the drawer and tucked the prize in his coat pocket.

 

He sought out Tina in the room shared by the two girls. Modesty had been introducing Tina to her small collection of teddy bears while Chastity sat mutely on the bottom bunk of the bed they shared. He gave Tina a significant look.

 

After thanking Mary Lou for her time and getting a gruff snort in response, Graves ushered Tina out the door to the stairwell so he could show her what he'd found.

 

"Oh shit," she gasped softly. "Now why would he hide that?"

 

"It means something," Graves said. "He didn't want his mother to find it."

 

A tentative grin bloomed across her face. "I didn't get much out of the girls," she said with less levity. "Credence was a quiet kid, kept to himself. Personally, I'm going to put in a call to the Barebones' social worker. Those girls were like zombies."

 

Graves couldn't help but concur as he related his conversation with Mary Lou as they walked down the stairs.

 

"If he was in any way questioning his sexuality, he wouldn't be telling her about it," Tina said with an unsmiling glance back the way they came. "It can't be a coincidence, can it?"

 

"He's targeting them," Graves agreed. "I wouldn't be surprised if he got to know them first, wormed his way into their lives, made sure they didn't tell anyone who he was. He gave this to Credence, I'm sure. And he kept it a secret."

 

"Tony's friend was sure he was seeing someone, but he wouldn't say who," Tina reminded him. "I wouldn't be surprised if him and Jason also got gifts they kept secret."

 

Back at the squad room, Graves and Tina briefed Picquery on what they found. She examined the necklace in its evidence bag, her brows knit.

 

"Sergeant -" Graves began cautiously, and she immediately cut him off with a look.

 

"Don't even think about it, Graves. This stays locked down."

 

"But -"

 

"You're a detective. If you want to know that this symbol means, figure it out yourself. I swear to god, if this leaks to the press -"

 

"They won't hear a peep from us," Tina assured her hastily as Graves frowned.

 

The next day was spent in research mode. Graves scoured the internet, poring over symbology articles and anything he could find remotely related to the subject. His eyes were beginning to ache from the strain and he blinked hard, spots of color exploding in his vision. He finally pulled out his glasses, usually loathe to wear them on the job, but the sharp pain between his eyes would not abate. Rubbing fiercely at his temples and so consumed by his research, he didn't even realize Tina was calling his name.

 

He turned to her, blinking. A blonde woman in a pink coat was standing at her desk. Suddenly self-conscious, Graves fumbled the glasses off his face, nearly poking his own eye out in the process.

 

"Sorry to interrupt," she said brightly. "I just brought Tina some snacks and I thought you might want one."

 

"This is my sister, Queenie," Tina explained.

 

Queenie held out a Tupperware container of cookies.

 

His stomach made him aware in an instant that all he'd eaten that day was a few bags of chips from the vending machine. "Oh, thank you," he muttered, reaching out for one.

 

"It's nice to finally meet you," Queenie said, smiling wide, a dimple appearing in one cheek. She had a pretty face framed by bouncy curls. "I mean, Tina's told me all about you."

 

"Has she?" Graves muttered in response. Tina was a good partner, but Graves had never been one to be overly friendly with anyone, let alone a colleague. He caught Tina's eye and she smirked at him.

 

"Sorry, Queenie, Graves is anti-social."

 

Graves felt his face color as Queenie giggled.

 

"That's OK, we all get a little shy sometimes." She smiled kindly at him and Graves felt his face redden even more. He bit into the cookie for want of anything else to do.

 

"It's… good," he mumbled awkwardly. It tasted like ambrosia, possibly the best cookie he'd ever eaten. He couldn't tell if it was especially good or he was just that hungry.

 

Queenie beamed at him.

 

"Graves, Goldstein – oh, hello, Queenie," Picquery said, emerging from her office.

 

Queenie greeted her like an old friend and Graves felt rather like he was in high school again, how every Monday had been a reminder of all the fun parties over the weekend he'd never been invited to. He was suddenly quite aware of his scruffy appearance, glad that at least he had showered recently.

 

"Can I see you both in private?" Picquery said to Graves and Tina after exchanging pleasantries with Queenie.

 

In her office, Picquery shared the preliminary autopsy report on Credence Barebone. The results were not a surprise, and consistent with the other victims. Most importantly, forensics had not recovered any foreign DNA or fibers. So much for hoping the killer would slip up this time.

 

Feeling grim, his previous embarrassment forgotten, Graves returned to his desk. Queenie, he noticed, was no longer smiling. She looked white, her eyes wide and shiny.

 

"Everything OK, Queenie?" Tina had also noticed the change in her sister's demeanor.

 

"I – I'm fine," she muttered, lips pale, her expression stricken. "I'll see you later, Teenie." She turned on her heel and dashed out.

 

When Graves glanced at Tina, she just shrugged and turned back to her work. Graves surveyed his desk where Queenie had been standing moments before. His monitor was blank – he locked his computer as a matter of habit before leaving his desk – but there on an open notepad was Credence Barebone's necklace in its plastic evidence bag. Graves kept it close by while he researched the symbol, holding its weight in his hand and thinking.

 

He had an odd feeling now. While he'd only just met Queenie, she seemed the bouncy, lighthearted sort; the look on her face when she'd left was like she'd seen a ghost. For a moment he thought he'd left a crime scene photo out for her to see accidentally.

 

"Your sister," he said slowly, "is she usually like that?"

 

Tina looked up from her computer. "What, friendly and bearing cookies?"

 

"When we came out of Picquery's office," he continued. "She looked... odd."

 

Tina stared at him, her expression inscrutable. "Sometimes she has weird moods." She looked away. "We all do."

 

Graves opened his mouth to keep pressing, then closed it again. The necklace was in his hands, its edges sharp through the plastic. He'd always been told the importance of following his instincts.

 

 

 

Queenie, apparently, wasn't her given name. He discovered this while searching for driver's licenses in New York state. Queenie Goldstein wasn't registered, but Bathsheba Goldstein was. Blonde hair, green eyes, 5'6". There was even a picture. And an address in Brooklyn.

 

Instead of staying on to pull overtime as usual, Graves wrapped up his shift and headed to Prospect Park, specifically the neighborhood bustling with hipsters where Queenie Goldstein lived. He rang the buzzer and waited.

 

"Who is it?" came her cheery voice through the static.

 

"Detective Graves," he shouted into the telecom. "I'd like to speak with you. Please."

 

There was a long pause and Graves considered ringing the bell again. Instead, the door clicked and buzzed as she let him in.

 

Queenie's apartment was on the second floor of the converted walkup. When she answered the door, she did so wearing a pink frilly apron and slippers shaped like cats.

 

"Detective Graves," she said, ushering him in. "This is a surprise. I was just making dinner."

 

"Sorry to disturb you," he muttered. The smile she gave him was a bit nervous, he thought.

 

Her apartment was small and cozy, decorated with dozens of knickknacks and framed pictures on every surface, the walls painted a sunny yellow, old-fashioned gingham curtains in the windows. There was a smallish kitchen populated with retro turquoise appliances and a huge gas stove. It was conjoined with the living room, its mismatched furniture all draped in brightly-colored afghans. The smell of roast chicken in the air further drove home how different it was to the Barebones place.

 

"What's this about?"

 

"I wanted to ask you about the other day, in the squad room."

 

She looked away to fuss with her apron strings. "Oh?"

 

"Does this look familiar?" He held up Credence Barebone's necklace.

 

Queenie's friendly smile melted away. Her gray-green eyes were wide and maybe even fearful. "It was – it was on your desk," she said quietly.

 

"But you recognize it. It means something to you."

 

She turned away, agitated. "I wasn't snooping," she insisted. "It was just sitting there."

 

"Miss Goldstein –"

 

"Does Tina know you're here?" she asked with a pointed look. "What about Seraphina?"

 

After Graves didn't respond, Queenie turned back to him, her arms crossed. "Yeah, I thought not."

 

"You know what this symbol means, don't you?" he continued, voice edged with desperation. "I need to know."

 

Queenie observed him carefully, her eyes very bright. Slowly, she untied her apron and draped it over a nearby stool. She turned off the oven with a click and then gestured for him to sit on the floral-patterned sofa. Seated next to him, close enough that he could smell fresh rosemary and basil on her hands, she reached for the evidence bag.

 

"Can I – can I touch it?" she asked in a small voice when she heard Graves suck in a breath as she made to open the bag.

 

Graves considered for a moment before nodding. There wasn't any harm in letting her; it had already been dusted for prints and checked for DNA when it was logged.

 

The necklace fell into her palm and she simply looked at it for a moment, her expression blank until her eyes drifted shut as her hand closed around it. Confused, Graves watched her sit motionless with the necklace in her fist, lips slightly parted. All at once, her eyes flew open again and she looked straight at him.

 

"The master of death," she said.

 

Graves blinked at her. "The – the what?"

 

"He wants to be the master of death. He wants to control death and dying and this is how he does it. With pain."

 

Graves frowned, watching her expression carefully.

 

"He wants to love them. That's how he loves them, with p-pain. But none of them measure up to what he wants." Her lips were bloodless and her eyes shone, falling closed again as a tear leaked out. She wiped it away, smearing her mascara.

 

"You're pulling my leg," Graves said softly.

 

Her eyes flashed open. "You're the one who wanted to know. I told you."

 

"This – what is this? This psychic routine or whatever it is, it's not funny, these are real people who are dead with real families –"

 

"It's not a joke. I wouldn't do that," Queenie shot back, her anger eclipsing her earlier sweetness.

 

"Miss Goldstein –"

 

"Listen, pal, I'm not trying to convince you of anything. You came into my house and demanded answers."

 

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Graves held out his hand for the necklace. He felt it in his palm, followed by Queenie's fingers, cradling his hand with both her own. Her hands were very soft and warm.

 

"There's a red-haired man," she said in a low voice. "Look for the red-haired man with glasses."

 

"Yeah, thanks," Graves muttered dismissively. "Got a name for me, maybe?"

 

Pulling his hand away was impossible when she kept holding him firmly. Her nails were painted pastel purple.

 

"You didn't get any presents on your fourteenth birthday."

 

Graves felt his heart stutter. He looked up at her sharply, at those glittering gray-green eyes boring into him.

 

"And you thought you didn't deserve any," she continued, her eyes softening.

 

He tugged his hand away harder and she let him go. His head was spinning as he rose from the couch.

 

"I don't think it's true. Everyone deserves presents on their birthday."

 

"Don't – How did you...?"

 

"You think I don't see those boys as people?" she said, voice high with emotion. "They died painful deaths – I feel it when I touch that necklace. I want to help but I knew you'd think I was a nut. You probably still do... Oh well. Thanks for stopping by, detective."

 

Graves couldn't respond. The sharp corners of the necklace's pendant cut into his palm. He couldn't keep looking into her calm face and shining eyes so he turned away, legs oddly uncooperative as he stumbled to the door.


	2. Chapter 2

"Graves, we need to talk," Tina said to him before he could even greet her good morning. 

 

"Yeah, OK." 

 

They found an empty observation room and Tina shut the door firmly before pacing the narrow space a few times. "You probably think I come from a family of nutjobs," she said with a wry laugh. 

 

"I didn't say -" 

 

"Listen," she said more firmly, cutting him off. "Queenie's always had this _thing._ I thought she'd grow out of it but she… didn't. She'll keep it quiet most of the time but -" 

 

"So what is this _thing?"_

 

Tina paused, clearly thinking of the best way to say it. "She says she feels things. When she touches people, or objects." 

 

"What, like magical energy?" he said, words dripping with derision. 

 

"I don't know," Tina snapped back. "I don't know what to believe..." 

 

Graves was going to say something else sarcastic, but then he paused. Queenie had no way of knowing about his fourteenth birthday. Who would have told her? He'd never told anyone, just accepted it as how his life was going to be from then on. He'd encountered psychics before – they always came out of the woodwork whenever a well-publicized murder happened. Most of the time it was worthless pseudo-mystical-sounding nonsense from some attention-grubber. The rest of the time the supposed psychic had real info but was too afraid to share their source with the police. Some had tried to prove their talents by reading his mind and he'd learned that they would start with something vague enough to sound somewhat true for anyone. But this kind of specificity... he hadn't encountered before. 

 

"Please don't hold this against me," Tina said desperately. "And don't tell Picquery." 

 

He stared into her pleading brown eyes. "Yeah, OK, of course I won't," he muttered after a moment's consideration. After she'd finished sighing with relief, he said casually, "'The master of death,' does that mean anything to you?" 

 

"No, it doesn't. Is that something Queenie said? " 

 

Graves sighed, mind churning. 

 

 

Intellectually, Graves knew it was ridiculous. Psychics weren't real. But at the same time... he reached out to the friends and family of victims, asking them if they recognized the term "master of death." He got nothing until he visited the Barebone house again. 

 

It was Saturday; Mary Lou was watching soap operas. She hadn't heard of the "master of death" either, but when he asked Chastity, he saw something flicker in her face. 

 

"Did Credence ever mention that to you?" he pressed, the young girl fidgeting in response. Graves had never been good with kids. He thought of Tina's greater ease with the girls and wished briefly he had brought her along. Chastity kept nervously glancing in the direction of her mother. 

 

He looked over at Mary Lou, who was absorbed in her stories and wasn't paying them any attention. Voice falling to a whisper, he said, "You can tell me. I won't mention it to your mother." 

 

"Credence... he said something like that. I can't remember exactly. I think he read it in a book or something." 

 

"Do you remember which book?" 

 

Chastity shook her head. "I think it's something to do with the devil," she said in a low, tremulous voice. 

 

"Why do you say that?" Graves asked in surprise. 

 

Chastity's eyes flickered to her mother again. "Anything mom doesn't like is of the devil. Credence told me not to tell her." 

 

"Thank you, Chastity," he said sincerely then turned back to Mary Lou. "Mrs. Barebone, is it all right if I take a look at Credence's stuff again?" 

 

"Sure, whatever," she muttered. 

 

Credence's sparse room now looked even more bare with his scant belongings packed up in boxes, the bed and walls stripped. The alarm clock remained by the bed and Graves registered that it relayed the same time. It had stopped working. Graves wondered for how long. 

 

With most of the boxes' contents being books, Graves had a lot to go through. He was sure no one had taken the time to look at what the books actually contained. Most of them were textbooks for Credence's college courses, old high school books, library sale castoffs, battered secondhand paperbacks. After half an hour of sifting, one of the books caught his eye. Unlike the others, it was brand-new, a hardback with a glossy dustjacket. _The Quest for the Deathly Hallows: The Search for Immortality in Legend and Myth_ by Dr. Albus P. W. B. Dumbledore. 

 

The cover illustration was a sort of generic medieval-esque landscape with a knight on horseback. Graves leafed through the pages before turning to the index, and right there, under _M,_ was the entry "Master of Death, The." Graves sat heavily on Credence's mattress, turning to the designated page number. The title of the chapter was "The Tale of the Three Brothers and Other Stories;" Graves skimmed quickly, eyes drawn to every mention of "the master of death." The context was that of specific myths where the character gathered certain items with magical properties and thus became master of death. Perplexed, Graves turned to the back cover. On the inside of the dustjacket was a portrait of the author. Dr. Albus P. W. B. Dumbledore had hair and a beard of graying red hair, and wore half-moon eyeglasses. 

 

 _A red-haired man with glasses._

 

Beneath the portrait was a brief blurb about the author: _Dr. Albus P. W. B. Dumbledore holds PhDs in philosophy and English literature from Oxford University. He has taught mythology and folklore around the globe for fifteen years and has written three books on the subject of universal mythos. He lives in Inverness, Scotland._

 

Inverness was a long way from Manhattan, Graves thought bitterly. He flipped through the book again, this time finding the section of glossy pictures and illustrations in the middle. On the third page of illustrations, Graves paused. In the corner, almost inconspicuous, was the symbol he'd been searching for – the circle inside a triangle, bisected by a straight line. The text below the image read: _Archaic symbol believed to represent the Deathly Hallows._

 

Graves sat staring at the page and the symbol for so long that a knock on the door startled him. It was Chastity, looking sheepish. 

 

"Mom wants to know why you're still here and if you're going to leave soon," she said. 

 

"I was just going – sorry," he leapt up and headed for the door. Mary Lou was glaring at him from the couch. "Thanks again, Mrs. Barebone." 

 

She did not respond. 

 

He took the book with him. 

 

 

His next stop was Prospect Park. It was rush hour and his Uber across the bridge seemed to inch forward in the traffic, but Graves was absorbed in Dumbledore's book. Its significance was undeniable. That symbol was important to the killer, important enough to inscribe on his victims; he was certain this book and the necklace had been gifts from the killer. Credence did not own many nice or brand-new things, and the necklace had been special enough to keep secret from his mother. The book itself, while rather dry and esoteric for Graves's taste, was all about how recurrent myths may point to a single, universal culture. What the Deathly Hallows had to do with the murders was beyond him, but they and their symbol must have meant something to Credence. 

 

Queenie answered the door as though she had expected to see him. Her apartment smelled of baking cookies, comforting and homey. Instead of an apron over her dress patterned in butterflies she wore a pink cardigan. Despite the way he'd left the last time he'd been there, she welcomed him in with a warm smile. 

 

"Do you want a cookie? Fresh from the oven." 

 

"What, did you foresee my arrival? Did the moon tell you?" 

 

Queenie only smirked as she led him to the kitchen. "You're making fun of me, but you're also here for a reason, aren't you?" 

 

His initial response was a frown, but he had to concede the point. "Do you know an Albus Dumbledore?" 

 

"Never heard of him," she said with a shake of her bouncy curls as used a lifter to check the underside of a cookie. 

 

Graves pulled out the book and held the back open. "Recognize him?" he asked, pointing at the picture. 

 

"Oh," Queenie muttered. "Yeah, that's -" 

 

"A red-haired man with glasses," he said harshly. "Are you going to tell me what's going on here?" 

 

The glare she gave him was long-suffering. Setting the lifter down, she took the book carefully in her hands, running a finger over the portrait of Dr. Dumbledore. Her eyes shut slowly as she closed the book and held it steadily, breathing deep and even. "His heart is broken," she said softly. 

 

"Who? The red -" 

 

"Credence. He wants to be loved. He thinks this is what love is like." 

 

"What -" 

 

"Attention. He gets attention. Gifts. It feels like love." 

 

"How -" 

 

"Jeez, can you let me finish?" Queenie snapped, eyes flying open. "I'm trying to concentrate." 

 

Graves shut his mouth as Queenie took a deep breath, closing her eyes again. 

 

"He – he makes them feel loved. He wants to love them back, but to him that means hurting them. He wants them to endure all the pain he offers because inside he's just – just rage. Pure rage." 

 

A dozen questions or so sprang to mind at once, but Graves held his tongue. 

 

"He – he's not American. European.... or something. Blond. His eyes -" Her own flew open, expression stricken. "Two different colors. Black and white." Her gaze locked with Graves's and she nibbled her lip. 

 

"A name would be especially helpful," he said cautiously. 

 

"I'm not tuning into a TV station, you know," she said. "There's only so much -" She gasped, eyes snapping shut. 

 

Graves watched, uneasy, as her lids fluttered, eyeballs rolling as though she were in the throes of a dream. Or a nightmare. Her body went rigid and then she was stumbling backward. The book hit the floor with a thud as Graves caught her shoulders on instinct, holding her steady. Her breathing was harsh and shallow, her lip trembling. When she opened her eyes they were full of tears. 

 

"Oh dear," she mumbled, letting out a small sob before her face crumbled. 

 

Still teetering off-balance and held upright in Graves's grip, she sagged forward. Alarmed, Graves found himself standing in the kitchen with Queenie in his arms, her head pillowed on his chest as her shoulders shook. She barely made a sound as she cried and Graves wasn't sure what to do. He patted her head awkwardly, wondering if he should say something, but completely unsure what. Tina was usually the one who comforted people when they had to give them the worst news, not him. He usually waited until the storm of emotions was over before he said anything. 

 

After a while, Queenie's sobs subsided and she pulled back to gaze up at him, far closer than Graves was used to anyone being. Her eyes shone, rimmed in bright pink, her cheeks glowing. "Sorry," she mumbled wetly. "I just – sometimes I _feel_ it so strongly. The pain." 

 

"Miss -" 

 

"Please don't call me that," she said with a lopsided smile. "My name's Queenie." 

 

Graves swallowed thickly. He was still holding her shoulders and now she had her hands wrapped around his forearms, the smell of her perfume filling his senses. 

 

"Don't be embarrassed," she said. "I'm alone now too." 

 

Graves couldn't respond. She couldn't have known that he was thinking about how long it had been since he'd held a beautiful woman in his arms. 

 

"Have a cookie," Queenie said. She'd let go of his arm and reached past him to the counter, where the cookies had been cooling on wire racks. "Spiced molasses." 

 

Graves bit into the cookie automatically as she held it to his mouth, the sharpness of the cinnamon cut with sugar. His lips tingled. Queenie smiled softly, wiping her cheeks with her other hand. Unable to hold her gaze, Graves stepped away, stuffing the rest of the cookie in his mouth. 

 

"Sorry I can't be more helpful," Queenie muttered, voice still a little thick and quavering. "My suggestion is you look for that Dumbledore guy." 

 

"He lives in Scotland," Graves mumbled through his mouthful of cookie as he bent down to retrieve the book she'd dropped. 

 

"Oh, but he isn't there now. He's in New York, I'm sure of it." 

 

Graves swallowed and was about to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand when she handed him a napkin. 

 

"Here." She grabbed a notepad that was stuck to the fridge with a ladybug magnet and scribbled a phone number on it. "So I don't have to ask the moon if you're coming." She gave him a sly grin. 

 

"Thanks," he muttered, folding up the paper and sticking it in his coat. His fingers felt warm where they had brushed hers. 

 

 

It transpired that Albus Dumbledore was indeed in New York. It took five seconds of googling to find out he was set to be a guest lecturer at Columbia. And it was open to the public. 

 

Graves arrived early, feeling slightly out of place among the college-aged kids gathered in the lecture hall chatting with each other. He had Credence's book and his work laptop tucked in a messenger bag and he hoped he didn't seem too obviously a member of the NYPD. Not sharing his plans with Tina or anyone else on the force meant he didn't have to explain how he was considering the word of a psychic a reliable lead. 

 

Speaking of which, Graves was hardly there five minutes when a familiar blonde young woman appeared next to him. 

 

"This seat taken?" she said with a cheerful smile. 

 

"What are you doing here?" he asked in an undertone. 

 

"Maybe I have an interest in ancient myths or whatever," she said primly, taking off her coat and folding it in her lap as she settled down in the chair beside him. "I mean, you're not here on official business or else my sister would probably be here too." 

 

Properly chastised, Graves did not respond. Queenie, at least, looked like she belonged there. She was wearing a loose dress patterned with bees, brightly-colored tights and half a dozen swinging necklaces. 

 

"Don't you have a job or something?" Graves said in an undertone when it was clear she had no intention of leaving. 

 

"Lately I've just been doing my YouTube channel." 

 

He turned bodily in his uncomfortable seat. "Your _what?"_

 

"My channel – I have enough subscribers to make some decent money while I work out what to do next," she said with a small sigh. "My fiancé and I owned a bakery but then, well, that didn't work out." She didn't specify whether she meant the business or the relationship but Graves supposed she meant both. 

 

"Sorry, I'm still stuck on the YouTube thing – you make money from that?" 

 

Her laugh was clear and bright, like a bell ringing; it turned more than one head in the hall. "I do baking tutorials mostly. If you have a cute shtick and the right personality then the views just roll in. Grab some more viewers with Instagram-able cupcakes and you can make a pretty penny." 

 

Graves continued to stare, and not just because of the bizarreness of what she'd said. Queenie was beaming, her face full of light. Graves looked away, hoping his cheeks weren't too pink. Maybe it wasn't completely unbelievable that people would tune in regularly to watch her bake. 

 

Presently, the head of the history department appeared on the podium to announce their guest. Dr. Albus Dumbledore had slightly more white in his hair than shown in his book portrait, but he had the same half-moon glasses. He was also wearing a three-piece suit made of deep plum velvet paired with a poisonous green bowtie. 

 

"Oh, I like his suit," Queenie enthused under her breath. 

 

The lecture was what could be expected based on the book Graves had found in Credence's room, but Graves had to wonder what had drawn him, a CUNY communications major, to this subject matter. With the knowledge that the killer was interested in this topic for whatever reason, Graves tried to pay attention, jotting things down in a Word document on his laptop, but he had to admit that it mostly went over his head. Dumbledore had a deep, calming voice, English-accented and a little droning. Before he knew it, Graves had typed "ritualized regicide" and "sympathetic magic" without really understanding what the man was talking about. 

 

Gritting his teeth, Graves glanced sideways at Queenie. He couldn't help but be hyperaware of her presence beside him and he told himself it was because she shouldn't be there at all. She appeared deeply absorbed in Dumbledore's droning voice, a small crease between her golden brows. She must have sensed him looking at her and she locked eyes with him. Feeling like he had his hand in the cookie jar, Graves looked away sharply, steadying his attention back on Dumbledore. 

 

The lecture was accompanied by a slideshow and Graves kept an eye out for the triangle symbol which had dogged him for months, but it never appeared. Brain feeling a bit like a rung-out sponge, Graves shut his laptop with a frown as Dumbledore concluded his lecture. The head of the department thanked him for his time. 

 

"He's not gonna take questions?" Queenie muttered beside him. "Weird." 

 

Graves silently agreed as Dumbledore simply walked off stage. It was subtle, but he was sure the man's eyes scanned the crowd nervously as he disappeared through a side door. 

 

Leaping to his feet, Graves didn't bother to tell Queenie to stay put when she followed him, sure she'd ignore him anyway. He dashed out into the hallway where Dumbledore was striding down the corridor with haste. 

 

"Dr. Dumbledore, can I have a word?" he called out but the other man did not even turn around. Graves was sure he was being intentionally avoided and he began to jog as Dumbledore vanished behind a set of double doors. "Excuse me, sir!" 

 

The appearance of a young woman in a tweed pantsuit caused Graves to stop abruptly and Queenie, so close behind, collided with him. 

 

"You can't be in here," the young woman said with clear annoyance. 

 

"I just want to speak with Dr. Dumbledore," Graves panted, fumbling in his breast pocket for his badge. 

 

The young woman bristled. Her eyes lingered on his badge, then glanced at Queenie who only grinned nervously. "What is this regarding?" she said at last. 

 

"I'd just like to speak with him," Graves said, firm but evasive. "Privately." 

 

She blinked at him, her annoyance only tempered by the appearance of his badge. "Let me speak with him. Please, take a seat," she said, indicating a small couch in the hallway. 

 

Defeated, Graves sank down onto it. It wasn't as though he had a warrant and he still did not want Picquery involved in whatever wild goose chase he was currently embroiled in. Queenie took a seat beside him. 

 

"I think he doesn't want to talk to you," Queenie muttered and Graves sighed deeply. 

 

"Clearly." 

 

"It's just – you could have let me try, I could say I was a student or something." 

 

Graves didn't respond. He had been thinking the same thing, annoyed now that he had jumped the gun and used his authority. The man would be even more suspicious now. 

 

After what felt like ages, the young woman appeared again. "He's busy at the moment, but if you don't mind waiting..." It was obvious she hoped they did mind and would simply leave. 

 

"No problem," Graves muttered and Queenie offered her a pacifying smile. 

 

Still irritated, the woman marched back into her office. Minutes passed. Graves watched the clock on the wall tick away. Half an hour, forty-five minutes. Beside him, Queenie played Candy Crush on her phone. 

 

An hour and fifteen minutes later, the young woman re-emerged. 

 

"Dr. Dumbledore is still quite busy," she said with no apparent sense of urgency. "You can keep waiting if you want." 

 

"We don’t mind," Queenie said cheerfully. 

 

Two hours became three and there was still no sign of Dumbledore. 

 

Cheer faded, Queenie was slumped down low on the couch. "My phone's dying," she muttered, and Graves only grunted in response. Dumbledore clearly thought he could outlast them. 

 

It was 6 pm when the young woman finally reappeared. Queenie sat up straight. She had been dozing with her head resting against Graves's shoulder. 

 

"Dr. Dumbledore has left for the day," she told them. 

 

"What? We didn't see him leave," Graves said sharply. 

 

"He's gone," she repeated. "Perhaps try him another day." 

 

"How long is he in city?" 

 

"I don't have that information," she related mildly. 

 

Graves ran a hand through his hair. "Please, can you just -" 

 

"Have a nice day," she said with cool smile and disappeared. 

 

Queenie groaned, tapping her recently deceased phone against her forehead. 

 

"Not unusual for a stakeout," Graves muttered, trying for levity to cover his annoyance. 

 

"He _really_ doesn't want to talk to you," Queenie said, and Graves scowled. 

 

 _And why not?_ he mused silently, mind on the book in his bag and the mysteries swirling around it. 

 

"I’m starving," Queenie said after a shuddering yawn. "You must be too." 

 

"I guess," Graves said. As usual, he hadn't been thinking about his stomach at all, mind in such hyper-focus, but the thought of food stirred something in him and he felt a pang of hunger. 

 

"Come back to my place, I'll cook you something." 

 

"Uh, you don't – That's OK – " 

 

"When's the last time you had a real dinner?" she said with a slight frown, touching his sleeve. "I insist." 

 

He caved. It was easier to drive Queenie back to Brooklyn and follow her up to her apartment as she chattered about this and that. Graves was still thinking about Dumbledore and what, if anything, he had to do with the case he was so desperate to solve. Queenie parked him at her kitchen counter and gave him a clove of garlic to chop. 

 

"You workaholic types," she said with a good-natured sigh. "You'll work yourself to death if someone lets you." 

 

"Hmm?" His mind was drifting even as he tried to keep from chopping his fingertips off. 

 

"I suppose you have something against sleeping too?" she continued, setting a huge pot of water to boil and replacing his pile of minced garlic with a package of pancetta. 

 

"This case is moving very slowly," he muttered, ignoring the way his spine tingled when she brushed his hand with her fingers. 

 

"It'll move even slower if you don't take care of yourself," she said with a twinkle in her eye. Graves went back to focusing on the pancetta. 

 

Next came a wedge of parmesan-reggiano to grate. Queenie hummed as she dumped a box of spaghetti into the boiling water. Graves watched her work, browning the garlic and pancetta together and whisking the cheese with eggs. When the pasta was done cooking, she mixed it all together with cracked black pepper and shooed him away to set the table. 

 

"There's homemade bread too," she said, serving them both healthy portions of carbonara. 

 

Graves could feel his insides groan at the delicious smells. He buttered a slice of bread generously and tucked in at Queenie's insistence. It was delicious and he ate greedily as Queenie somehow continued the conversation as she ate her own portion. 

 

"Dumbledore's talk was very interesting," she said. "Especially the bit about displaced patricide." 

 

"Uh, what?" Graves thought back to the confused jumble of jargon he hadn’t been able to wade through. 

 

"You know, killing your father, killing your king – if you can't kill the man himself, then you find a substitute." 

 

Graves just stared at her, brows furrowed. 

 

"It reminds me of the killings! Like, obviously he's killing younger guys but I think the ritual is there. He always does it in the same way." 

 

Mulling this over, his fork dipped as his brain clunked away. "Tina's been sharing casefiles with you?" he finally said. 

 

"Of course not," Queenie said a bit huffily. "I can't help what I see accidentally when she gives me a hug." 

 

"Right," he muttered. 

 

 _"Anyway,"_ she said with an eyeroll, "do you think there's a connection or no?" 

 

Graves picked at his bread crust, dislodging the last few crumbs. "It's a very – astute connection," he conceded and Queenie smiled hopefully. "The ritual aspect isn't uncommon for serial killers. The murder is planned over and over again in their fantasies; they want to act it out as close to that as possible. And it usually falls short, which is why they're compelled to kill again." 

 

"He's also brainy. Intellectual. He gave Credence that book for a reason and that symbol means something to him." Queenie talked as she cleared the table, gathering his empty plate and cutlery. "Teenie would say it's some way of rationalizing his desires." 

 

"That makes sense..." he muttered. "Here, let me help." Graves was eventually tasked with drying the dishes as Queenie washed them. "If Tina shared things with you about the case, even accidentally..." he began gingerly, cradling the saucepan in the dish towel. 

 

Queenie merely sighed dramatically. "Gosh, I know it's tough to accept, but you don't need to keep pestering me. You can just leave if you don't want my help." She turned to him, one yellow glove-clad hand on her hip and a scowl on her pretty face. 

 

Face hot, he turned away to find a home for the saucepan. "Sorry," he finally mumbled after setting it on the stove. 

 

"I know why you haven't gone to your supervisors with any of this," she continued, attacking the cutting board with a sponge. "But I'm more than willing to help if you'll just respect me a little." 

 

"You're right," he said contritely, fiddling awkwardly with the towel and feeling like a dumb kid. 

 

Queenie seemed to visibly relax as she handed him the dripping cutting board. "It's OK, we're good," she said sweetly, past wrongs already forgotten. 

 

With the dishes clean, Queenie made a pot of tea and offered Graves more of her homemade cookies. They sat in the living room area, each on their respective laptops. Graves was diving into terms like "displaced patricide" and "ritual regicide" and trying to find out more about Dumbledore. As usual when he was deep in researching for a case, Graves lost track of time. 

 

"I need a coffee," Graves muttered, yawning hugely. 

 

"It's past eleven!" 

 

"I'm on a roll," he protested, but Queenie gave him a look. "OK, let me just – rest my eyes for a minute." He stretched himself out on the chintz sofa, limbs aching, eyes burning. 

 

Queenie tutted as she went to turn off the lights; he wanted to protest, but his eyelids were too heavy.


	3. Chapter 3

Graves awoke feeling panicked and nearly rolled off the couch and into the coffee table. Heart racing, he steadied himself and sat up. Still in Queenie's apartment, the living room was now filled with daylight; it melted away the last of his chaotic dreams. Groggy, he barely registered that Queenie had draped an afghan over him as he slept. He got up, rubbed the sleep from his eyes and took it as a win that he'd slept on a horizontal surface instead of slumped over his desk for a change. 

 

As he headed for the bathroom, Queenie emerged from her bedroom, blonde curls tousled from sleep. She wore sheep-patterned sleep shorts that sat high on her bare thighs and a thin t-shirt that made it plain she wasn't wearing a bra. 

 

"You're awake!" she exclaimed as Graves felt heat climb up his face. 

 

"Sorry for falling asleep," he muttered, looking steadily over her shoulder. "I can just -" 

 

"Don’t worry about it, honey," she said cheerfully. "I hope the couch wasn't too uncomfortable." 

 

"It was perfect." 

 

"I would've offered you my bed, but you were sleeping so peacefully I didn't dare wake you up." 

 

Graves couldn't help but look into her bedroom and the patch of bed he could see looked inviting and soft, bright pink sheets tangled. His cheeks, he thought, were probably matching in color. 

 

Queenie didn't seem to notice. "You can take a shower if you want," she said. "Here." She ushered him to the bathroom and found him a towel in the closet. 

 

When she left him alone, muttering something about breakfast, he let out a breath. He wasn't sure why he sometimes turned into an awkward middle schooler around her and he didn't care for it. 

 

He stripped down and got into Queenie's slightly cramped shower. The shower curtain was patterned with mermaids, all of them winking flirtatiously at him, but at least the water was hot. There was a shelf cluttered with so many shampoos and body washes that Graves wasn't sure where to start until he found a plain bar of soap that smelled sweetly of vanilla and lathered up gratefully. He chose a shampoo from one of the many options and tried not to think of Queenie in her short shorts, the swell of her breasts beneath thin cotton. 

 

He emerged smelling like a perfumery, dried and redressed in his clothes from the night before since he had no other option. His reflection in the mirror frowned back at him. A shave would've been nice. The steel gray stubble on his jaw made him feel oddly self-conscious as did the tired, haggard look in his eyes. He thought of Queenie – bright, bubbly, the personification of a ray of sunshine. What was he doing letting her into his world of blood and death? She didn't belong there, she was meant to live in the sunlight. Let him stay in the shadows where he belonged. 

 

Brooding, Graves emerged from the bathroom to the smell of freshly brewed coffee. 

 

"Let me guess," said Queenie at the counter. "You like your coffee black." 

 

"Good guess." 

 

Queenie grinned and bit her lip, sliding a steaming mug over to him. He sat on a stool and drank deeply, savoring the taste of proper coffee, so different from the burnt dishwater he had gotten used to at the station. She also served him a plate loaded with fresh cut fruit, a cinnamon bun slathered in frosting, and a golden croissant. 

 

"Also your work?" he asked, biting into the deliciously rich bun. "It's very good," he added, and Queenie beamed. She was taking pictures of her own plate of food with her phone. 

 

"For Instagram," she explained with a shrug. 

 

"I see," he said, though he didn't entirely. "Thanks for breakfast. And for letting me sleep on your couch." 

 

"Anytime," she said with a brilliant smile. "What's the next step?" 

 

Graves got to work on the croissant, accepting the fact that Queenie would keep tagging along. Although he had to admit she had been pretty helpful so far. "Keep looking for Dumbledore," he said between bites. "It's awfully suspicious that he's intent on avoiding police." 

 

Queenie was tapping her chin. "That reminds me, I might have found something." 

 

"Oh?" Graves dropped his half-eaten croissant. 

 

"Albus is kind of an unusual name, isn't it? I found a super old article – here." She grabbed her laptop and found the page she had bookmarked on the UK's Telegraph archive. 

 

Graves read the story greedily. It was about a teenage girl killed in England some thirty years ago. Her name was given as "Ariana D."; her brother Albus was also mentioned. Ariana had been killed, apparently by accident, as a result of a violent fight between her brother and his houseguest, a fellow student from Switzerland. Because Albus was a minor his full name hadn't been given. The student – Gellert Grindelwald – was charged with manslaughter and put in a detention center at Her Majesty's pleasure. 

 

"That's… very interesting," Graves said, the rest of his breakfast all but forgotten. "This guy, Grindelwald, what happened to him?" 

 

Queenie pulled up the other articles she had found. "Released and deported back to Switzerland when he turned 21," she read out. "There's a picture." 

 

The young man in the stark black-and-white mugshot was boyishly handsome with thick blond hair and dark eyes. He regarded the camera with a blank, glazed expression. There was nothing behind that stare. 

 

"It could be the guy I saw in my vision," Queenie said. "Give or take a few decades." 

 

"You said his eyes were two different colors," Graves reminded her. 

 

"It’s been thirty years, who knows," Queenie said with a shrug. 

 

Graves examined the picture carefully. Their Albus Dumbledore was the right age to be a teen 35 years ago and it was an unusual name. Now he was even more keen on finding the man and talking to him. 

 

"A teen girl doesn't fit with his other victims though..." Queenie remarked softly, gently nudging his plate of breakfast as if reminding him to finish eating. 

 

"If it was truly an accident," Grave mused, absently tearing at the croissant and nibbling the pieces, "then maybe it just gave him a taste for killing. And he'd be in his forties now. Near fifty. There's no way Tony Sheehan was his first victim, it was too methodical. It makes sense that he's foreign... I'd bet anything there are similar crimes in Switzerland." 

 

But, he thought with a sinking feeling, contacting Swiss authorities could get tricky if he still didn't want to get Picquery involved. He could try and explain away his hunch, but Picquery was a smart woman, and she'd want to know every step of his thought process. 

 

Queenie was leaning over the counter with her chin in her hand, rapt with attention. 

 

Graves ate the last of his breakfast with a sheepish half-smile. "Thanks again," he said. "I do appreciate your help, Queenie." 

 

Her smile was a dappled shaft of sunlight falling on her face. "Good. Please remember you have my number." She tapped his arm. 

 

"I will," he muttered, almost hoping he wouldn't need it. 

 

 

The next day found Graves back at the station. Half-expecting Tina to question him about spending the night at her sister's apartment, he was surprised when she treated him normally. Perhaps she didn't know; he appreciated Queenie's discretion. 

 

A brisk round of calls revealed that Dumbledore was equally quiet. Either he'd vacated the city or at least was being very inconspicuous. The university itself was also less than forthcoming and was increasingly hostile to his repeated questions. When the woman on the other end of the line – doubtless his friend in the tweed pantsuit – hung up on him for the second time, he had to admit it was time to change tactics. 

 

That dreaded timer was counting down, that was the problem. It had been reset at three months once Credence Barebone turned up dead and there would be another body in the same amount of time, he was sure of it. Just as Tina had said: like clockwork. It was an itch under his skin, a constant low-level panic. The man he hunted was out there right this moment, perhaps already with eyes on his next victim. Ingratiating himself into their life, seducing them, building up the fantasy of their death in his mind. 

 

The name Grindelwald was difficult to pin down. He scoured the internet for articles that might mention him, but his inability to speak German and shaky grasp on French was a great hindrance, especially when he reached out to the Swiss authorities. That was done with great caution, hopeful he wouldn't have to involve Picquery and then have to explain himself. He didn't, but neither did he make any progress. Google Translate only helped so much. 

 

"Queenie, what are you doing here?" 

 

Graves looked up at Tina's words. Queenie was indeed standing there, dressed in pink and holding a tin. 

 

"I brought you treats again! Since you're my favorite sister and all." 

 

"Oh, OK... " Tina looked slightly bemused as she took an offered cookie. 

 

"I brought more molasses spice cookies for you, Detective," she said, holding out the tin for Graves. "I know you like them." She offered him a warm smile that made his chest constrict as he mumbled a thank you. 

 

"Does he now?" Tina said, her eyes widening. "I wonder how you came to possess this knowledge." 

 

Graves could feel his cheeks turning red as Tina shot him a particular look. He carefully avoided her gaze. 

 

"I just know," Queenie muttered. "No reason to get all detective on me, Teenie." 

 

"OK, OK," Tina said with a laugh, but she still watched her sister keenly. 

 

Queenie's cheeks looked a little pinker than usual. She excused herself to go say hi to Picquery. 

 

"It figures she's looking for someone else to be mother hen to," Tina continued with a sigh. 

 

"Is that all?" Graves muttered, ears still burning. 

 

"She was like this with her fiancé, Jacob. And, well..." She trailed off and Graves got the message. _I'm alone too,_ Queenie had said. 

 

When Queenie disappeared again after chatting good-naturedly with seemingly every person at the station, Graves found himself missing her. She was like a buoyant soap bubble: bright, colorful, floating along effortlessly. An uplifting presence. 

 

Late that night, Graves was the last person in the squad room as usual, tired and hungry and more than a little cranky. As he wrapped up his work for the day, the last thing he expected was a text message from Queenie. 

 

 _Hey, I dug up some maybe important info. Drop by whenever._ This was postscripted with a cat face emoji for no reason Graves could understand. 

 

He weighed his options. It seemed preposterous to continue to rely on Queenie for any information regarding the case but he couldn't deny how helpful she had been so far. 

 

In the end, he couldn't pass up an opportunity to follow a lead. He grabbed a squad car to head over but first he dropped by his own apartment for a shower. He told himself he wasn't trying to impress anyone, just that he wanted a return to his old professional, groomed persona. With his hair still damp, he headed to Brooklyn and Queenie's place. 

 

She greeted him with an infectious energy and was quick to usher him inside. "I found something – maybe something. I don't know, you tell me." Despite loading the article she'd found on her laptop, she couldn't stop herself from explaining it at the same time. "This expert on ancient history, Bathilda Bagshot, she lives upstate. I found an interview that said she's close personal friends with Albus Dumbledore." 

 

Leaning over the laptop on the counter, Graves scanned the article, feeling a unique tingle of excitement. _"'Family friends for decades...'"_ he read aloud. "If Dumbledore is the same Albus from that article, she'd have to know details. How did you find this?" 

 

Queenie waved his question away with a vague comment about the importance of search engine keywords. "I've tried to contact her but apparently she doesn't have a phone. A real recluse, I guess. But there's an address!" 

 

"Sundown," Graves repeated, picturing cottage country. "You think she still lives there?" 

 

"Her publisher said she's definitely still up there, but she's basically a hermit and hasn't done an interview in ages." 

 

He hummed. "It's a bit of a ways..." 

 

"Two and a half hours if the traffic's OK," Queenie swiftly relayed to him. "If we start early tomorrow morning -" 

 

"'We?'" Graves repeated crisply. 

 

Queenie immediately stiffened. "Oh, so I do all the research for you and I'm not even invited along?" Her eyes blazed, but Graves kept his expression firm. 

 

"This is police business, I cannot allow a civilian to just -" 

 

"In that case I'll call my sister since obviously you'll want to bring your partner along on this _official police business,_ right?" 

 

Graves didn't respond at first as Queenie, arms crossed, radiated obstinance. 

 

"Fine. Let's go," he finally said with a deep frown. 

 

"What, now?" she said, arms dropping in surprise. 

 

"This is the first solid lead I've had in months, I'm not waiting until tomorrow." 

 

If Graves had hoped the suddenness of his departure would put Queenie off, he should have known that was an empty wish. Queenie immediately ran to her bedroom and emerged wearing bright pink sneakers and her coat, slinging a purse over one shoulder. 

 

"Quit dawdling then, let's get moving!" she chirped as though he were taking her down the block to get ice cream. 

 

With a deep sigh, Graves followed her out the door. 

 

The traffic out of the city was less than OK as Graves knew he should have predicted, but beyond that they encountered little trouble. Queenie had taken over the auxiliary cord and Graves was subjected to one bouncy pop song after another. 

 

"Well, what do you usually listen to?" she said with a laugh when he couldn't disguise his grimace. 

 

"NPR?" 

 

"Wow, you're such a liar." She made a grab for his phone that he was unable to block since he was driving and all. "Simon & Garfunkel, eh? That's... interesting." She was laughing as Graves felt his cheeks warm. He certainly hoped the car was dim enough to obscure his blush. 

 

Queenie queued up _The Sound of Silence_ and they passed the rest of the trip with Graves not paying much attention to the music anyway. His mind was on the task ahead, on the questions he would ask, on how he could keep Queenie in the car and out of danger as he worked. The gun in his holster was heavy against his side. He didn't want to use it. He didn't want Queenie to see him use it. He hated guns, the sound they made, the menace of their weight, that smell that lingered long after firing. Sometimes it brought him back to being a little boy, his father's service pistol shoved in his face after one too many whiskeys. 

 

Sundown was barely a hamlet that consisted entirely of touristy shops and cute bed-and-breakfasts. Bathilda Bagshot lived far outside the small residential area. Graves glanced at Queenie as they turned onto a dark careworn road. She looked pale in the headlights' reflection, but beyond that her expression was unreadable. Dim streetlamps gave way to total darkness broken up only by the neon glare of reflective striping along the road. Trees loomed large in the darkness. Clouds had climbed high over the moon as they drove and not a single star was visible. Queenie unplugged her phone and tucked it deep in her pocket as Graves switched off the music to let the GPS take over. 

 

They turned onto a gravel road, plunging them further into cloistered darkness. Only the limited scope of the headlights illuminated anything. Branches hung low over the road, shedding the last of their leaves. A menacing wind whistled and Graves could feel the hair lift up on the back of his neck. The world seemed to shrink before them, squeezed and sharply defined. Queenie took in a sharp breath and they reached the end of the road, the darkened shape of a house emerging from the black. He felt her hand on his wrist as he put the car in park, a sudden shock of warm skin. 

 

"There's something..." she whispered, voice trembling minutely. "I don't know what. It doesn't feel right." 

 

"It's just spooky," he said, calmly as he could manage. "Stay here." 

 

"Oh, don't you dare," Queenie huffed, her trepidation evaporating as she unbuckled her seatbelt. 

 

"Queenie -" 

 

"Nope!" 

 

Graves refused to argue with her and waste time. He left the headlights on to provide light as they got out. His hand itched, brushing the hard bite of his gun under his arm as he eyed the house. It looked abandoned; his was the only car in sight. The crunch of gravel under their feet as they approached sounded hideously loud, and horror movie-caliber wind rustled the trees and threw the smell of rotting leaves in their faces. The wooden steps were kind enough to creak loudly as he made his way to the door, Queenie stumbling slightly as she hastened to stay as close to him as possible. 

 

There was no doorbell so he rapped hard on the door. No answer. After a long moment, he tried again, pounding harder this time. 

 

"Hello, anyone home?" he called loudly. "It's the police, open up!" 

 

Only silence. He peered into a window but only striped curtains could be seen, obscuring everything beyond. Graves raised his hand to knock again, frustration welling in his chest, when Queenie's head whipped around and she gasped sharply. 

 

"There's something..." she muttered, huddling so close to him he could feel her breath on his cheek. 

 

"It's just an animal," he assured her, though the hair stood up on the back of his neck. 

 

"It's not, it's – _Graves!"_

 

There was a crash in the woods that didn't sound at all like an animal. Graves pulled out his gun on instinct as he whirled around and caught the barest hint of a definitely humanoid figure illuminated in sharp relief by the headlights before it was swallowed in the dark trees. 

 

"Stay here!" Graves bellowed, a surge of adrenaline making his words harsher than he intended as he tore off after the figure. 

 

It was only when the dark forest surrounded him, the headlights piercing a few feet into the gloom behind, did he think of the small flashlight he kept in his car, useless in the glove compartment. He barreled through the branches, whip-like twigs scraping his face and catching at his clothes as he followed the sound of another person charging through the woods. 

 

 _"Stop! Police!"_

 

The further he went, the more disoriented he became. The crunch of footsteps on the forest floor ahead never seemed to get any closer. He panted, sweat dampening his brow and stinging in the cold air as he kept pace. There was a sound like a shout to his right; he swerved sharply, leading the way with the gun in his hand. The darkness was nearly complete and he cursed himself again for entering the woods unprepared as he nearly tripped over a fallen tree limb. 

 

He was just thinking he should go back, get his flashlight, even admit defeat and get backup, when there was a blinding pain in his hand. The crack of something smashing his wrist made him drop his gun and he yelled, unable to orient himself at all when the second blow came, catching him in the stomach. Winded and unable to even scream, he bent double and wheezed. Something long and slim, solid as a baseball bat, exploded across his back and he found himself on all fours, pain radiating from every corner of his body as he fumbled in the darkness for his gun. 

 

There was a swift blow to his side, much more like a vicious kick, and Graves went sprawling onto his back. The pain in his ribs was paralyzing; his wrist throbbed as he felt a presence loom over him. 

 

A hand yanked the collar of his shirt. "Nice try, detective," a voice hissed above him. Low and thin, the sound like a strip of gristle caught in teeth. Humid breath and the putrid smell of onions hit Graves as the man got right in his face. A cold finger brushed his cheek. "You're a pretty boy, but just a boy in the end. See you later." 

 

Graves couldn't make out the face at all beyond a glint of teeth bared in a grin, the smell of body odor. Then he was gone. Only the sound of leaves and twigs crunching rung in his ears as he was left alone. Gasping, sharp pains reverberating from his ribs with every breath, Graves managed to sit up. 

 

"God fucking dammit." Each syllable was drawn out with a wheeze. 

 

"Graves!" Queenie's voice was high and bright in the darkness before he heard her approach, the weak flicker of her phone's flashlight lighting the way. 

 

"I'm here," he called out. "I’m fine... He got away." 

 

Queenie collapsed beside him onto her knees, face pale and stricken. After straining his eyes so hard in the darkness, the light of her phone up close was blinding. It fell over the forest floor, illuminating the dull glimmer of his gun. 

 

"You're hurt," she croaked, hand lightly touching his face. 

 

"It's fine," he said, yet unable to suppress a moan of pain as he groped for his weapon. "At least he didn't get this." 

 

Queenie helped him to his feet as he tucked the gun back in his holster. Her small warm hand wrapped firmly around his. "You didn't see his face," she said. It wasn't a question. "He smelled bad." 

 

Graves thought back to the encounter, realizing he had gotten some useful details after all. "He sounded.... German. Or Swiss, I guess." 

 

Queenie's hand around his squeezed tightly. "You need a hospital," she muttered as they made their way slowly back through the woods towards the car and Bagshot's house. 

 

"I'm fine," he repeated stubbornly. His wrist throbbed, but he could move it so it wasn't broken. Even the pain in his ribs, while intense, had faded to manageability. Or so he thought. "Shit," he groaned as they reached the car. He leaned heavily against it, feeling along his side where the man had struck and kicked him. 

 

"There's no one home," Queenie said in a muted voice. "I'd be able to feel someone inside." 

 

"If you say so," Graves muttered. "Damn, I'm sorry..." 

 

" _You're_ sorry?" said Queenie, incredulous. 

 

"Waste of time, should've waited till morning, I let him get away..." He rattled off the litany of mistakes and straightened up to see Queenie shaking her head. 

 

"You got a look at him. He touched you. That's something." 

 

Graves couldn't respond. Adrenaline had drained out, replaced with bone-deep exhaustion, tempered by slow-burning rage, frustration, and – worst of all – the knowledge that he'd charged off half-cocked and left Queenie alone. If something had happened to him - 

 

"Get in, I'll drive," Queenie said, reaching out to squeeze his hand one more time. 

 

 

It was well past midnight by the time they made it back to the city. Graves had downed some painkillers he kept the glove compartment and, while he hadn't intended to nod off, the next thing he knew the GPS was announcing that they'd arrived at their destination. 

 

"Your place is closer than mine," Queenie said after he'd roused, rubbing his eyes. 

 

"How'd you know?" he muttered. "Ah." She held up his phone with a sheepish shrug. 

 

Moving at all to get out of the car reminded him of all the ways he'd been injured. Wrist, side and back screamed in agony and he needed to leaned carefully against the door a moment to get his bearings. 

 

"Let me take you to the ER," Queenie said in a rush, but Graves simply shook his head. 

 

"You can take the car back to your place..." 

 

"You're crazy, I'm not leaving you alone!" 

 

Resigned, Graves allowed her to follow him into his building. More accurately, he leaned heavily on her arm as he shuffled like an old man. It was so late they didn't encounter a single person as they rode the elevator up. 

 

After fumbling for his keys, which shouldn't have hurt but did, Graves unlocked his door and switched on the light. 

 

Beside him, Queenie let out a low whistle. "Has Tina been lying about her salary all this time? Has she been holding out on me?" 

 

Graves didn't respond, dropping his keys in the dish by the door, guilt blossoming sudden as a bruise. He'd inherited quite a lot when his parents passed. Most of it continued to grow in investments, but he'd bought his place years ago when he needed somewhere close to the precinct and figured he could afford the exorbitant price tag. 

 

Queenie's eyes were wide as they swept over the space, a roomy one-bedroom that only cost so much because of the Upper West Side location. "Could use a little redecorating," Queenie mused, cocking her eyebrow. "Or like, any decorating at all." 

 

He only shrugged. No point taking offense when he remembered her place, full of things and twice as homey. "Why bother wasting time and money when I'm hardly ever home?" He dropped onto the couch with a grunt. "All I really need is a nice bed and spacious shower..." The suggestiveness of his words was lost on him until Queenie taught his eye and giggled. Graves looked away sharply, cheeks reddening. 

 

"If you won't let me take you to a doctor, at least let me make you some tea," Queenie said firmly, still grinning as she began rifling through his cabinets. "Now this is a kitchen, damn." 

 

"You don't have to babysit me," Graves muttered a few minutes later when Queenie had given up on finding any tea in his pantry and settled on a mug of whiskey, standing over him as he downed it. 

 

"Don't be ridiculous," she said lightly, flicking her fingers at him. "Now take off your shirt." 

 

"Huh?" His heart leapt in his chest. 

 

"He beat the crap out of you, let me see if anything's broken!" 

 

"I’m _fine,"_ he insisted, sounding rather petulant. 

 

Queenie tutted and took the mug from his hand and all but tugged his coat from his shoulders. Underneath, he wore only a white dress shirt. And his gun holster. Her hands hovered over the black straps, his pistol glinting with dull menace. 

 

"Wait." Graves went to unclip it but the sudden movement made him gasp in pain. 

 

Queenie pushed his hands out of the way. "Let me." Her hands glided over the straps to find where they unbuckled, then lightly skimmed his sides. 

 

Skin tingling at the gentle contact, he carefully avoided her eyes as she nearly pulled him into an embrace in order to remove the holster without hurting him. He laid the whole thing, gun and all, very gingerly on the coffee table. When she gave it a wary look, as though it were a skittish dog prone to biting, he mumbled, "Safety's on," and was rewarded briefly with her sheepish smile. 

 

Next came his shirt. Her hands immediately went to the buttons near his throat but he stopped her. Surely he could unbutton his own shirt? Cheeks burning, he discovered he could do little else, and let her pull the unbuttoned shirt off him and ease the sleeve over his sore wrist. She was so close, sitting on the coffee table so she could lean over him, her hair smelling of crushed autumn leaves. Carefully, she lifted his arm and gently touched his side which was already mottled with bright red bruising. He sucked in a breath as she pressed her dry palm against his ribs, where the skin was terribly sore. 

 

"Sorry," she said automatically. Her eyes were a darker gray than he'd seen, warm with sympathy when they flicked to his and away. 

 

As her soft hand pressed again, Graves grit his teeth. The pain was fierce, but when he took a deep breath, fighting not to recall the last time he'd taken his shirt off in front of a woman, Queenie reported she did not detect any gritty feeling on the bone. 

 

"I think you're OK," she determined, hands leaving his side to examine his hand. She caught his eye as her fingers skimmed the sensitive skin on the underside of his wrist. He looked away, hissing in pain as she bent it slightly this way and that, finally agreeing that it wasn't broken either. 

 

"I have an ace bandage in the bathroom cabinet, I think," he told her, and she went off to retrieve it. 

 

Alone, Graves pulled his shirt back on, not wanting to make her feel any more awkward. After everything he'd put her through, she wouldn't want to keep staring at his naked chest. Even if he could still pass the fitness tests without any trouble, the hair there had started to come in gray, much to his dismay. 

 

Before he could beat himself any further, Queenie returned with the bandage and some medical tape to patch him up. "You gotta learn some basic first aid when working in a bakery," she said, nimble fingers wrapping the bandage tight and secure around his wrist. "Burns and cuts'll happen." 

 

"A bakery?" 

 

"I owned it with my fiancé, Jacob..." Her brow creased in distress at the memory, and he regretted asking. "But we couldn't afford to keep in afloat. Drowned the relationship too." 

 

"I'm sorry," he said in a weak voice, hating how awkward he felt when people experienced feelings in his presence. 

 

But Queenie only shrugged. "All patched up and ready to fight another day, soldier," she said with a mock salute. 

 

"Thanks. Like I said, you can take the car back and return it tomorrow morning if you want..." He trailed off as Queenie yawned hugely. 

 

"It's so late and..." She took his uninjured hand. He could detect the slightest tremble. "He knows who you are." 

 

"He... what?" 

 

"He called you detective." 

 

In spite of how he'd tried to beat it down in the hours it took to drive home, the encounter with the man in the woods welled in his mind like blood overflowing from a fresh stab wound. With Queenie's warm fingers closed around his hand, he could feel the putrid breath on his face, the man's cruel grin gleaming dully in the shadowed forest. 

 

His heart pounded. "How did you..." 

 

"Hush," Queenie said, cutting him off with a finger pressed to his lips. His mouth tingled as she pulled away. Still clasping his hand in hers, she pressed a palm to the center of his chest, slipping under the fold of his open shirt. "Close your eyes," she instructed. 

 

He did. The memory bloomed with even more clarity, like a photo developing in a dark room, edges sharpening as the blacks darkened ever deeper. The outline of the man's face was barely visible in the gloom: the sharp nose and chin, the sliver of hollow cheekbones as the dim light slide over his face. The pungent breath and body odor filled Graves's nostrils, gagging him. That finger, cold and clammy like the flesh of a frog, grazed his cheek... 

 

Graves's eyes flew open as he gasped. His heart thundered as he stared into Queenie's face. 

 

Her eyes were huge in her bloodless face. Her hand, still flat against his bare chest, shivered. "It's him," she breathed. "He killed Credence, and Tony, and Jason." 

 

Graves swallowed thickly, unable to respond. His mind spun with the image of the man. With the sensation of Queenie's fingernails dragging over his skin as her hand trembled. 

 

"Killing makes him feel powerful. The rest of the time he's nothing. He can't stand it... he has to hurt someone, degrade and humiliate... his rage is so strong..." Her voice broke and she hung her head. 

 

Graves, still gripping her hand, took a deep, shuddering breath. "That's enough for tonight," he said gently, uncurling her hand from his chest and going to rub her shoulders as she hunched over. "You're shaking." 

 

"He knows your face. He recognized you." 

 

"Well, I've been on the news," he muttered, trying not to show that this revelation did indeed bother him. He rubbed Queenie's arms, but she continued to shiver, her eyes bright and glassy. "Listen, we both need sleep. I'll take the couch." 

 

"In your own apartment? Don't be ridiculous," Queenie said with a sniff. "And you're wounded..." 

 

"Really, I don't mind..." 

 

"Don’t be a martyr. What's the point of having a big comfy bed if you can't use it?" Her smile was shaky, but it was a good effort. 

 

Graves, on the other hand, was too exhausted to argue further. He did indeed have a large bed, dipping into his considerable assets to make it as comfortable as possible for those times when he actually bothered to use it. 

 

He was considering that same bed while he gave Queenie privacy to change out of her clothes and into a borrowed NYPD t-shirt and a pair of his sweatpants. Absolutely swimming in them when she emerged from the ensuite bathroom, she slipped past him to curl up under the covers, blonde curls spread over one of his pillow like a halo. Chest aching, he hated how he immediately thought of how long it had been since he shared his bed with anyone. 

 

Stripping down to his boxer briefs, he swiftly pulled on an old t-shirt and slid under the covers beside her, careful to give her adequate room and not make things any more awkward than they needed to be. Queenie seemed to be halfway asleep already and she only grunted when he said good night and turned off the light. 

 

 

In the forest, the trees were dripping with black blood and moss. He stumbled through the hanging branches, wishing he could see better. It was as though his vision was obscured by Vaseline, a thick smear laying over everything. He felt panicked, frenzied, like a distant clock was ticking down to mark his doom. He had to keep moving; his father's handgun digging into his back. The old man wheezed behind him, lungs constricted by emphysema. 

 

But the pain that hit his chest was like fire. 

 

 _"See you soon, detective..."_

 

Graves awoke with a strangled shout. He was too hot under the covers, skin tight and crawling. His heart hammered and at first he couldn't speak at all, only gasp. 

 

"Graves, Graves... Percival, it's OK." Queenie was leaning over him, one hand on his chest over his heart, rubbing circles into the fabric of his t-shirt. 

 

He lay back, letting his breathing return to normal. Letting her comfort him. 

 

"It's just a nightmare," she said in a soft voice. 

 

"Yeah." He closed his eyes, blocking out the anguished tenderness of her expression. "What time is it?" 

 

"Around six," she muttered sleepily. 

 

It was Saturday, but he was usually up at this time anyway. For the past few months he'd been going to work on the weekends too, whenever he could. 

 

Queenie was still rubbing his chest. 

 

He knew he should tell her to stop, but he didn't want her to. It felt wonderful, soothing like a warm bath on a cold day. His various injuries from the night before throbbed dully, making themselves known. "Let me drive you home," he said in a low voice. 

 

"If... you want," Queenie muttered, and he tried not to read into her tone of voice. "We could get breakfast." 

 

Graves took her hand from his chest and squeezed it briefly before pushing it away. "You should get back." He got up slowly, his ribs and arm aching fiercely as he made his way to the bathroom, never looking back at her. By the time he returned from washing his face, she was already dressed and ready to go.


	4. Chapter 4

For the next few days, Graves kept waiting for something to happen. He wasn't even sure what, but he felt a persistent sense of apprehension, like that hated clock counting down to another disaster, cold and uncaring. Despite what Queenie had said, he still felt like the excursion to Bagshot's house had been a failure. In his rational mind, he decided the old woman no longer lived there and whoever he had encountered in the forest was just some vagrant they'd startled. Still, Queenie's certainty that this man was the man he'd been hunting niggled him. A feeling, no matter how strong, was no substitute for evidence. 

 

Also, despite his belief that he was simply paranoid from the attack in the forest, he had an ever-present feeling of being watched. He often found himself idly scribbling the triangular symbol on scraps of paper, mind thick with distraction. 

 

Queenie's mere existence was another constant torment. He'd often catch himself thinking of her while trying to do work, his mind wandering away from gritty reports to the feel of her soft hands on his skin, the tempting pink of her lips, the smell of her hair. He was inescapably drawn to her and it made him feel off-balance. After spending so long alone, without any sort of distraction from his work, he assumed that he must just be lonely. That, at least, was what he kept telling himself. 

 

It didn't help that Queenie continued to show up at the squad room at odd times. Ostensibly she was there to visit Tina and bring baked good for everyone or offer her sister a ride home, but even Tina could see through that ruse. She would throw Graves knowing glances whenever Queenie appeared randomly and he'd feel himself flush despite himself. He was sure Queenie was simply galvanized by the case and wanted to continue assisting him, but Tina's coy little glances only made him feel self-conscious. 

 

In truth, there was nothing more to share. Graves, though fixed somewhat on the mysterious figure of Gellert Grindelwald, could not locate him after his release from the English detention center. 

 

"I think we should tell Tina and Sera what we've figured out, don't you?" she said one afternoon, when Tina had left them alone for a brief period to file some paperwork that didn't need filing. 

 

"I don't have anything concrete to tell them. I don't have any evidence or witnesses..." 

 

"You do too! You have..." 

 

"Queenie, I can't go to my boss and tell her that your psychic vision led the way. I'll look ridiculous." 

 

She glared at him, lips thin. 

 

He wanted to apologize, but he couldn't get the words out. As she turned and left in a swirl of pink, he scrubbed a hand across his face and sighed. 

 

Albus Dumbledore, elusive as ever, proved equally impossible to talk to until Graves received a call one afternoon. 

 

"Hey, Graves," said an officer at dispatch. "There's this guy on the line, he wants to talk to you specifically." 

 

Graves pushed his glasses up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Does he have a name?" 

 

"Negative. He insists on only talking to you. Should I patch him through?" 

 

The odds were high it was another crank, but after how helpful Queenie had been he couldn't in good conscience turn down any possible lead. "Yeah, sure, put him through." Graves waited a moment, not expecting much. 

 

"Hello?" came the voice on the other end. "Is this Detective Graves?" The voice was nervous and clearly British. 

 

"Yes, who is this?" 

 

"My name is Albus Dumbledore. I believe you've been looking for me." 

 

Graves sat up, alert as a sniffer dog on a fresh trail, fumbled his glasses off unthinkingly. "Yes, I have." 

 

"I'm – I'm willing to meet with you," Dumbledore said cautiously. 

 

Doing his best to remain calm, Graves said swiftly, "That can be arranged." Before Dumbledore changed his mind, he continued, "Somewhere public, yeah? Can you meet today?" 

 

Dumbledore, despite his hesitance, agreed to meet Graves at a certain café in Midtown. Graves, feeling more optimistic than he had in ages, grabbed his jacket and dashed off. 

 

He made it downtown in record time, nabbing a coveted table near the window in the crowded café as he waited for Dumbledore to arrive. The man was late and Graves was growing impatient when he saw a familiar deep violet pinstripe suit. 

 

"Dr. Dumbledore," Graves said in a rush, standing up to shake the man's hand. 

 

Up close, Dumbledore looked stressed and tired, his blue eyes lined by dark shadows. His smile was wan, creases appearing all over the parts of his face not concealed by a graying beard. 

 

"Thank you for meeting with me, detective," Dumbledore said, glancing around the café in an obvious show of nerves as they both ordered coffee. After the waitress left, but before Graves could prod him further, he said gravely, "I know that you're involved in the case of all those poor boys." 

 

"And you have information regarding that?" Graves said, neutrally as possible as Dumbledore paused. 

 

"I did wonder why you tried so hard to speak with me at all," he said, voice wavering. "I – I don't know anything about it. That's all I -" 

 

"I don't think that's true," Graves said, keeping his sarcasm to a minimum as he pulled the scrap of paper with the symbol scribbled on it out of his jacket pocket. "This was in your book, was it not?" 

 

If Dumbledore was surprised, he didn't show it. "This has something to do with those boys?" he said softly and Graves only nodded as he laid it down on the tabletop between them. "Well, I can't imagine – I don't know what more I can tell you..." 

 

"Listen, Doctor, it's clear that you reached out to me for a reason. All I want to know is why." 

 

Another lengthy paused before Dumbledore hung his head, and Graves felt a thrill run down his back. Answers, at last, were on the way. 

 

"When the second young man turned up dead, I didn't want to believe it," he began in halting tones, fidgeting with the teaspoon. "And then the third..." He looked up at Graves, sky blue eyes pained. "It is... my greatest shame." 

 

Graves simply waited, allowing the man to gather his courage. He'd sunk so much time into the case, he could afford to wait a little longer. 

 

"I had a friend many years ago, a very dear friend. We studied together. We were both interested in ancient history, in old religions and magic as ridiculous as that sounds..." Dumbledore swallowed, watching the people pass by outside. "We discovered that symbol together and used it as a sort of shorthand for our research. We were merely children... so foolish. At least I was. But one day, there was – there was an accident..." He trailed off, voice choked. 

 

"Your sister," Graves prompted, and the man glanced at him in surprise. 

 

"Ariana, yes. Gellert and I were arguing about... something, something silly, and he got violent. He got so enraged. She tried to interfere and she – she..." 

 

He remembered the article Queenie had found. "She fell down the stairs." 

 

Dumbledore nodded gravely. "He pushed her. I tried to tell myself for years that it was an accident, but I think I always knew it wasn't." 

 

Graves allowed the other man to steady himself, take a deep breath and a deeper swallow of coffee, and continue on. 

 

"He went away and I thought I'd never see him again. But I met him again, once, before he was deported back home. He was so different. It was like a veil had been removed from my eyes – I saw him for who he really was. He had enjoyed killing Ariana and wanted to do it again. He wanted to talk about magic again, those old rituals we'd studied just for fun, I thought. He thought he could have real power if he spilled enough blood. 

 

"I told him he was mad." 

 

"And he didn't take that well?" Graves prompted again when Dumbledore faltered. 

 

"No, he was furious," Dumbledore said with a jerking shake of his head. "He looked at me with such hate... His eyes. His eyes were different. He was set upon in prison, clobbered by another prisoner and partially blinded. The one eye was milky white." 

 

 _Two different colors. Black and white._ That's what Queenie had said. Graves could hear her words as clearly as he heard his blood pumping in his ears. But he stayed as calm as possible on the outside when he asked, "What makes you think Grindelwald did the three killings here?" 

 

"I got a letter from him last year, telling me in was in the city. That he wanted to 'start something.' I feared the worst." 

 

"But you didn't think to inform anyone?" 

 

"I was simply too ashamed," Dumbledore said, mouth twitching downwards. "I convinced myself there was nothing anyone could do." 

 

Graves did not respond to that, any sympathy he'd had for the man evaporating faster than the steam from his cup of coffee. 

 

Dumbledore put his head in his hands. "I loved him," he said in a brittle voice. "For a long time. Too long." 

 

"Do you have any idea where he'd be in the city?" 

 

"No idea, I can assure you. The only possibility is his great aunt Bathilda -" 

 

"Bagshot, yeah I already tried her," Graves muttered impatiently. "Do you have anything else you want to tell me?" 

 

Dumbledore shook his head. 

 

A sigh escaped Graves at last before he said with all the sincerity he could muster, "Thank you for contacting me. You've been very helpful." 

 

At last Dumbledore looked up, eyes shining and intent. "I never intended for any of this -" 

 

"Of course not," Graves said with a shake of his head, pushing back his chair. "Thanks again." He left the coffee he'd ordered untouched on the table as he stood up. Dumbledore still looked on the verge of tears, and Graves didn't want to be caught in the emotional crossfire. 

 

Outside the café, his mind swirled with all the new information. At least now he had a real witness that put Grindelwald in the city, and a real motive beyond simple lust murder. He could share this information with Picquery now and with the whole task force looking for him, they could make some real headway... 

 

He was so focused on his next steps that he didn't even noticed the man swerving from nowhere and bumping into him. There was a sharp pain in his side. 

 

"Sorry, friend. Didn't see you there." 

 

Graves felt himself stumble, growing rapidly dizzy. The stranger was still standing close enough to embrace him, hand now on his arm. 

 

"Steady now." There was a rotten smell of onions. 

 

Graves felt a jolt of fear when his eyes finally focused on the man in front of him. His gaze was piercing, one black eye and one white. 

 

But he couldn't speak. His throat closed up, knees suddenly jelly. The last thing he heard was a low rumble of laughter as he slid into darkness.


	5. Chapter 5

From beneath the heavy shroud of dark water, Graves emerged sputtering. The water was imagined, it turned out, but he still could not move. He struggled weakly until he felt ropes cut into his wrists, his ankles bound equally tight. Upon lifting his head, sluggish and groggy, a bare unfinished room greeted him. A grated work light, the only illumination, revealed he was bound to a chair, the old injuries in his wrist and side throbbing anew. 

 

"Rise and shine, Detective," came a voice from behind him. When Graves tried and failed to look for the source, there was a low chuckle at his efforts and then the man walked casually into view. Some vestige of the handsome young man he had once been was still there, but the years had not been kind to him. White-blond hair, those schizophrenic eyes, his cheeks hollow and emaciated. 

 

"Grindelwald," Graves managed to mumble. 

 

The man laughed again. "Pleased to be acquainted," he said with a little bow. His English was good, only lightly accented. "I thought it would be harder with you. With the other boys I spent weeks seducing them. When the time came, they were so easily led. You and I had such a brief flirtation, I didn't think it would be so simple. But there you go, falling right into my arms..." 

 

Graves swallowed, throat feeling at though it were studded with broken glass. "My partner knows where I was going," he gritted out. "She'll find me." 

 

"Oh, I think not," Grindelwald said lightly. "No one knows where to look for you, not even that little blonde twit that follows you around." 

 

"They'll find me," Graves snarled. "They'll find me and put you down without a trial, they'll -" He was silenced by a vicious crack across the face, Grindelwald's once affable demeanor fracturing as a sudden rage took over. Graves tongued at his busted lip, tasting blood. 

 

"I'm going to enjoy hurting you, Detective," Grindelwald said steadily. He pulled out a small silver knife as his voice took on some of Dumbledore's lecturing drone, but with an unsettling sing-song quality. "In ancient times, when the crops failed and their animals died in the fields, they would take a beautiful young man and make him king for a week. Treat him as such until the time came to kill him three times. Only then could the gods be satisfied." He pressed the blade against Graves's cheek, eliciting a small trickle of blood. "I don't have the time you make you a king, my boy. But it'll have to do." 

 

"You're insane," Graves muttered. 

 

Grindelwald only laughed. 

 

The knife went to Graves's throat and he couldn't stop the sharp gasp of fear that sprang forth. But Grindelwald only pried open Graves's dress shirt, cutting off one button at a time at first until he was bared to the waist, the tatters on his shirt hanging off his bound arms. Then Grindelwald slashed again with the knife, tearing open a long gash across his chest. He slashed again and again, laying shallow wounds that burned and trickled scarlet blood down his torso to drip on the floor. 

 

Graves tried not to scream, but the pain was overwhelming, until the knife sunk deep into his shoulder. He howled, Grindelwald's laughter echoing cruelly in his ears. 

 

"I saw you with my dear friend Albus," Grindelwald said when his knife finally paused, tone obscenely conversational as he regarded his work. Graves was clenching his jaw so hard it hurt, his chest a forest of red gashes, bleeding freely. "Oh, he plays the good samaritan now, but he used to follow me around like a puppy. He was so in love with me, he wouldn't even blame me when I killed his stupid little sister. I can still remember her blood on my hands." He dug the blade of the knife under Graves's skin, ripping upwards to tear out a whole chunk, smiling at the scream he produced. "It made me feel so… aroused. 

 

"And she was just a girl." 

 

Graves was breathing fast and shallow, on the edge of hyperventilating. He could feel the blood soaking into his pants. He'd lost so much already, yet Grindelwald kept cutting. "But you couldn't fuck any of those boys, could you?" he managed through clenched teeth. "Is that because you can't get it up? Is it because you can't have _him?"_

 

Grindelwald's mismatched eyes blazed in fury. 

 

But Graves continued. "All this shit about magic and killing your kings – that's all it is, shit. You're just another second-rate Ted Bundy. No one will even remember you in ten years." 

 

There was an explosion of agony as Grindelwald kicked him the chest, right in the middle of the mess of wounds. His chair toppled over, his head hitting the floor with a nasty crack that made him instantly woozy. 

 

"No one will forget me, no one will catch me, I'll be the thing that kept this city up at night for centuries!" Grindelwald bellowed, his expression deranged. He grabbed Graves by the hair and used it wrench him upright, causing Graves to moan weakly in pain. 

 

The world was graying around the edges, the pool of blood around the chair growing ever wider. His head throbbed, his chest was on fire, but even the intensity of the pain seemed to be ebbing away. It just wasn't fair that he had to die like this, for no reason at all, without getting the bad guy in the end. He had hoped he wouldn't die young like the rest of his family, like his father and grandfather before him. 

 

Yet at the touch of the blade on his throat, hot as hell, he thought bizarrely of Queenie. He wondered if she'd get the chance to touch his body when they managed to find what was left of him. If she'd feel his last feelings and thoughts and if she'd know he wished he'd listened to her. He hoped she'd know that he was sorry. 

 

Darkness closed around him and he swore he could see her eyes glittering in the gloom, brighter than jewels and twice as fine. He hoped she'd know the thought of her comforted him in the end. 

 

 

Muted light poured over him, as if through a thin cotton cloth. He breathed deep, smelling disinfectant and linoleum. His head felt about two sizes too big for his body. After blinking a few times, vision coming into sharper focus, he saw an off-white pitted ceiling and heard the steady beeping of a heartrate monitor. 

 

"Percival!" 

 

He recognized the voice, bright and high with excitement, but he couldn't be sure it was actually her until he managed to turn his head. Queenie's eyes were rimmed with red and she looked exhausted, but she was smiling so widely that the tears must have been from happiness. 

 

"Mmmhmm," was all he could say in response. 

 

Then she was holding his hand. He wasn't strong enough to squeeze back, but he was comforted by the weight of her palm against his all the same. People were filling the room, nurses and a doctor shouting orders and asking if he could hear her. 

 

"Yeah," he muttered, tongue thick in his mouth that was dry as sandpaper. "I can hear you." He wasn't looking at the doctor. He only wanted to look at Queenie, her gray-green eyes full of tears. 

 

Once the doctors and nurses were done with him, he was allowed to sit up and suck on a water filled sponge to relieve his thirst. Queenie hadn't left his side the whole time, and now she was chattering away excitedly. 

 

"It was Albus," she explained in a rush. "He called me. He had my number because it was written on a piece of paper you gave him, probably by mistake. But he wanted to meet me 'cause he felt so bad about everything and just by touching his hand I knew you were in danger. I just squeezed his hand hard as I could and there you were, like you were sitting his front of me." 

 

Her eyes were huge and glistening and he knew she'd felt some of his pain. He squeezed her fingers gently. "Thank you," he croaked. 

 

She gave him a watery smile. 

 

"Good to see you’re still with us, Graves." Tina had arrived, looking rather harried. "We have the suspect in custody and he's been very... chatty. He was very proud of himself for jabbing you with a sedative in broad daylight and whisking you into a nearby car. Which is good for us, all things considered." 

 

Graves nodded stiffly, feeling a warm creep of humiliation for being so handily abducted. 

 

"We've impounded the vehicle and preliminary forensic testing seems to link him to Credence, Tony and Jason. So all in all, I think we got him," she said with a wry smile. 

 

"All it needed was a pound of flesh," Graves said softly, returning her look with a grimace of his own. 

 

"We're still counting our lucky stars that we got to you in time, Graves," she continued, eyes softening. She shot Queenie an odd look. " But I still don't entirely understand how you knew where'd he be, but... I don't need to know." 

 

Queenie, cheeks pink, only shrugged and squeezed Graves's hand. The pain in his chest was still palpable under all the meds, sticky bandages pulling with every breath. Peeking under his hospital gown revealed thick rows of stitches crisscrossing his chest like a crazed stained-glass window. 

 

She left them alone and Queenie offered to get him more water and insisted on fluffing his pillow even further. 

 

As she leaned over him, he touched her arm. "Thank you," he said in a strained voice. 

 

"Don't worry about it, honey. You should thank Albus too, if he hadn't called me..." 

 

"No, no. Thanks for being... here. Right now." He couldn't look her in the eye when he said it, sure he was only being so candid because of the copious morphine in his system. "If you hadn't noticed... no one else would come sit next to me as I died. It's nice to have... someone to wake up to." 

 

"Oh, honey." Queenie stroked his cheek fondly. 

 

He didn't have to say anything else. He was sure she knew. 

 

 

Queenie had brought over another tub of soup. Not a bowl, a tub. Graves had thought she would stop bringing him so much food when he got back on his feet, but apparently she'd been so appalled at the empty state of his cupboards and fridge that she felt it was her moral duty to keep him fed. Graves was still on leave and had all the time in the world to go shopping, but he couldn't deny any excuse to see Queenie. 

 

"Creamy tomato today," she said brightly as he invited her in. "And fresh rolls of course. It would be criminal to have tomato soup without bread for dipping." 

 

He insisted on heating up the soup and serving while Queenie chose something for them to watch. 

 

_"The Princess Bride_ is my favorite," she gushed as he returned from the kitchen bearing a tray. 

 

"Oh," he said. "Looks... good." 

 

"If you don't like this movie, you have no soul," she said firmly and Graves felt his lips twitch into a half-smile. He slipped his glasses on to watch the movie, no longer feeling self-conscious about them. 

 

As much as he enjoyed having time off after such a long and arduous case, Graves did not do well when forced on leave. If Queenie hadn't been so insistent on keeping him company, he was certain to have gone crazy. Maybe he was anyway: he was starting to enjoy the movies she chose for them. 

 

Grindelwald had plead guilty to all three murders, to the surprise of many. Graves was sure the man only wanted the chance to allocute and brag in court about what he'd done. After their encounter, he knew how much the man simply loved to hear himself talk. Still, a guilty plea meant the process was easier than anyone could have anticipated, and Graves wasn't required to testify. For his part, he had nothing to say, and would leave the impact statements to friends and family of the victims who hadn't survived been so lucky. 

 

With soup and fairy tales complete, Queenie had somehow snuggled up under Graves's arm, a blanket draped over both of them. "I love that movie," she said, sniffling. 

 

"It was nice," Graves agreed, enjoying the feel of her against him. 

 

"I knew you'd like it," she said smugly. "And it's OK if you wanted to cry when she thought Westley was dead." 

 

Graves only grumbled but didn't contradict her. He wasn't an idiot, he knew what she was up to. He looked down at her, at the soft fall of pale lashes against her cheek, her body curled next to his like she'd been there all her life. 

 

She stared back at him, her gaze bright and inquisitive. "You can kiss me if you want," she said with a sly smile, her hand stroking his bare arm. 

 

He felt his cheeks warm but he didn't look away. Instead, he touched her cheek with his free hand, grazing the skin gently with his knuckle. She was smooth as velvet. 

 

Her lips were even softer. She tasted like the molasses cookies she'd served for dessert, sweet with a hint of spice. Tender at first, the kiss deepened as he pressed himself closer, and it went on and on until they were both out of breath. 

 

"Not sure what took you so long." She ran a hand through his hair and then gently removing his glasses and folding them carefully. 

 

"I don't know," he mumbled, unwilling to admit he'd been too nervous. He suspected she knew the truth anyway. 

 

As she kissed him again, her hand slid from the back of his neck down over his chest, pausing when he gasped. "Sorry," she said, worrying her lip. "Do they still hurt?" 

 

"Sometimes," he said, feeling hot. "They're not very pretty, though." He didn't like to admit being vain, but the mess of scars where a rather nice chest had once been depressed him more than usual. 

 

"You think I care?" she said, eyes crinkling. 

 

Before he knew it, Graves was lifting his arms above his head as she tugged off his shirt. The scar tissue was gnarled and dark red in places, ugly dips and divots carved into his flesh by Grindelwald's knife. Queenie's hands were gentle as always, caressing the tender skin with as much care as she had when she'd checked him over for broken bones. 

 

"It really doesn't bother you?" he muttered after a while. His voice shook, not purely from her touching him but also the intensity of his vulnerability. Not a feeling he tended to welcome. Not until - 

 

"I couldn't care less," she said sincerely, leaning down to nuzzle his cheek before sitting up to lead him to the bedroom. 

 

He didn't spend a fortune on that bed for nothing after all.


End file.
